Damned Poetry
by Marauder-In-Disguise
Summary: How can a friendship built on mutual trust survive such a betrayal? WARNING - CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR 7x01! Don't say I didn't warn you...


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Of all the habits he tried to break in his life, the frequenting of low life bars when he was angry was the one that never really grated on him. He knew that it was kind of sad, to be getting drunk alone in the type of place where they would take your wallet once you'd passed out, but he'd be damned if he was going to stop. David Rossi was a lot of things, and stubborn bastard was one of them.

Seven scotches in and he was starting to feel it, but he wasn't going to stop. Emily was alive. Heart beating and lungs pumping alive. He'd done the whole doting mentor thing, smiled in all the right places, said all the right things, and now he was going to get so drunk that he forgot it all for the night.

_She's alive._

_Alive._

_Alive._

_Alive_.

And he knew why Hotch and JJ did it, knew why she had to disappear and they all had to mourn. He knew, and he even understood; the rational part of his mind had got to grips with that, no problem. Doyle would have targeted them, or even little Jack and Henry, to get to Emily. There would have been no mercy and no remorse, so she had to be dead. It was the only way. It was an impossible choice. He knew and he understood.

The only problem was that it didn't do much to silence the little voice in his head. The voice telling him that one of the only people he truly trusted, his best friend, lied to him. Aaron had never, ever, lied to him before and he was almost sure that he never would again, but it hurt anyway. Aaron sat and listened to him spill his guts about Emily, all the crap he had spouted about being married to the team when really all he wanted to say was that he cared so bloody much about them all. Aaron sat and listened to him and nodded and let him make a toast to Hayley and Emily in the same breath. He toasted with him –

"Dammit!" he snarled, hurling the empty glass at the wall. It was testament to the sort of establishment he had chosen that all the bartender did was pick up a cloth and clean up the glass with a casual, "Rough day, buddy?"

"Rough bloody day alright," he growled. The tender, a man who could have been no more than twenty five and reminded him of Reid, threw the broken glass away and poured him another scotch as though he'd done nothing more than order another. Then he moved away, to a safe distance, and continued to page through the magazine he had under the cash register. David watched him for a while, wondering what sort of life this young man had that he could work in such a place but read _'National Geographic'_ between cleaning up broken glass and bloody noses. Not a great one, he was willing to guess, and then he felt guilty because this kid had evidentially had it bad and he was still standing and he wasn't smashing stuff like he'd got nothing left to live for.

"I'm sorry," David said suddenly, surprising himself and the other man.

"No worries, man," the kid said, looking up briefly from the article he was looking at, "We all have days like that."

_Some more than others, _David thought. This man probably thought he was dying or, more likely, someone he knew was dying. What would he think if he knew the truth - that really this sixty year old toddler was having a tantrum because someone tried to protect him? He'd probably charge him for the glass, at the very least.

When Dave's phone began to ring, he wasn't sure if he pleased that it was Aaron or not. It was just after eleven, way too late to be a work call when they were stood down, and he took too long staring at his friend's picture trying to decide what he could want this late at night. It went to voicemail and he left it a moment before he dialled the number and listened to Aaron's voice, laced with concern that all too rarely was especially for him.

_Dave, it's me. I know we haven't had much of a chance to talk about this yet and I'm sorry. If you're awake, can you call me back? I'm sorry, Dave. I hope you know that, and I hope you're not at some bar drinking by yourself. I can come pick you up if you are; Jack's still with Jessica. Please, just call back._

Dave snorted and flung the phone down on the counter. Aaron had changed his tune since earlier, when he told Morgan that it wasn't about either of them. But then Morgan had always been one for wearing his heart on his sleeve and needing his emotions kept in check. Aaron took his part as team leader very seriously; it made sense that he should need to defend Emily to the only other young alpha in the group, especially one who made it very clear when he was pissed. Dave, on the other hand, was all too often the one to keep Aaron in check and the younger man was smart enough to recognise and embrace that which Dave could uniquely offer him. Of course he would phone Dave now; he needed that reassurance more than ever.

Reassurance that Dave wasn't quite willing to give him yet. Instead he ordered another scotch, knocked it back and stumbled to the bathroom. He must have been in there quite a while, because the bartender had time to pick up his phone and dial the first number that came up on the speed dial which, of course, was Aaron because even good old fashioned Catholic guilt couldn't stop Dave admitting that he loved his friend most in the world. When he came out of the bathroom, his phone was back exactly where he left it.

The door to the bar opened with a quiet tinkle of a bell and the few other patrons in the room fell silent. Dave turned from his place and came face to face with Aaron, who was dressed in the same clothes he had come off the plane from Pakistan in and who still hadn't had a shave. He looked like hell, sleep deprivation clearly setting in, and for a minute Dave felt sorry for him. Then the moment passed and he turned away.

"What the hell are you doing here, Aaron?"

"I got a call," he said simply, sliding onto the stool besides him, "I've come to take you home."

"You shouldn't have bothered," Dave said wearily, eying the bartender who, to his credit, stared right back, "I'm alright."

"You seem it," Aaron nodded airily, "In a lowlife dive, smelling of scotch and-"

"Thank you so much for your observations," Dave bit sarcastically, "You're not supposed to see this."

There wasn't much Aaron could say in reply to that, because both of them knew the importance of taking time out to themselves to organise things in their heads. They even talked about it sometimes.

"I'm sorry, Dave."

"It's not your fault the kid called you-"

"Not for being here," Aaron said, catching Dave's eye before he continued, "I'm sorry that you couldn't know. I'm sorry I had to lie to you."

"It's alright."

"No, it's not. If it was, you wouldn't be here. I _know_ you understand why I had to do it, so I can only conclude that the reason you're sat here is because of me."

"I always told Gideon we taught you too well, Junior."

At the sound of his old nickname, bestowed on him when he first joined the BAU, a tiny smile crept onto Aaron's face and he briefly laid a hand on Dave's arm.

"I hope you can forgive me, Dave. I wouldn't change what I did but I mean it when I say I'm sorry."

The angry viper coiled in Dave's stomach, dulled by the alcohol he had poured onto it, seemed somewhat soothed by his friend's words and he nodded.

"Give me a ride home and I'll think about it."

"Sure."

Dave paid his tab, giving the kid a healthy tip in the process, and followed Aaron out to his car. With surprisingly steady hands he buckled his belt and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Aaron didn't speak for most of the journey, a fact for which Dave was grateful to say the least; with a headache forming behind his eyes, noise was the last thing he needed. Instead, he wanted just to get to bed and sleep off the events of the past few days, and wake up in the morning with a hangover but refreshingly clearheaded. Then he and Aaron would talk again, and perhaps he would try to explain why he had gone to that bar. Then again, maybe he didn't need to; the clench of Aaron's hands on the wheel, the dark circles under his eyes, the slight gauntness he had noticed, told him all that he needed to know – without him, Aaron had no one that he trusted enough to talk to, and if he was honest with himself, without Aaron, Dave was in the exact same boat. It was damned poetry.

"I missed you, Aaron. Don't go to bloody Pakistan again."

A small quirk of the lips.

"I missed you too, Dave."


End file.
